


A New Beginning

by Blackwidina



Series: 52 Short Stories [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 52 Short Stories in 52 Weeks Challenge, Episode: S05e05 The Disir, Fix-It, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwidina/pseuds/Blackwidina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Week 1 of the "52 Short Stories in 52 Weeks" challenge by ourwritingtherapy on Tumblr.</p>
<p>1. A story entitled “A New Beginning”.</p>
<p>I decided to re-write the end of The Disir, because it's the episode that makes me the most angry, because Arthur was written so badly. There's zero chance he would have ignored Merlin's distress when asked the Magic/Mordred question. So screw it, here you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Beginning

1\. A New Beginning

“There can be no place for magic in Camelot.”

The words, so heavy they nearly crushed the breath out of him, only grew weightier upon saying them aloud, and Merlin dropped his eyes from Arthur's again to stare at the flames. His whole body felt like it was rebelling—like it might fly apart under the conflicting pressures within him. Even his magic burned him from within, as if in silent protest of his hypocrisy. It took all of Merlin's willpower to keep his breathing steady, his power under the tightest leash he could manage. His eyes were damp, but hopefully Arthur would pass that off as grief for Mordred--

“I don't believe you.”

Merlin's composure nearly shattered under those four words, his gaze flying back up to his King's. A startled, “What?” escaped him before he could clamp his mouth shut. He hunched in closer on himself, trying to hide how ragged his breathing was becoming.

Arthur watched him with narrowed eyes, mouth pressed thin with grim determination. “You're _lying._ Why?” 

His hands clenched a little in the blanket, but he was starting to feel more in familiar territory—though how awful was that, that he felt more comfortable the more he lied to cover his own lies? “I'm not. I'm just. Upset about Mordred.”

“No. You're not.” His voice was low, but sure. “Merlin. We've known each other a long time. Do you think I don't know when you're grieving? You do not grieve for Mordred. I don't know why, but you haven't properly liked him from the start. Tell me why. Please.”

Merlin would blame the 'please,' so rare an occurrence, for causing him to blurt out, “D'you remember when you met him? The first time, I mean?”

Arthur seemed to mull it over, his eyes watching some leaves as the light breeze pushed them along the forest floor. “He asked me that, as well. It saddens me that I don't, but . . . it's not an altogether uncommon thing. The petitioners I see at court every week see only me, and how my judgement affects their lives. I cannot help but see hundreds of them.”

Sitting up straighter, Merlin picked up a stick and prodded at the fire. “Well. Mordred was no mere petitioner. The first year that we knew each other, Arthur. Do you remember the druid boy Morgana helped?”

Arthur's face flashed with the familiar pain at the mention of his sister, but then his brow furrowed in deep thought for several seconds before his entire expression shifted to shock. “It was _him. Mordred._ He even told me his name. No wonder he was so hurt I couldn't recall!” He dragged a hand over his face. “I defied my father to save a druid boy only to forget both name and face. And yet still he became a knight in my court.”

“The druids harbour those with magic,” Merlin couldn't help but point out.

“That doesn't mean that Mordred is one of . . . them?” Arthur looked like he'd been smacked in the head by a large object. “Is _that_ what it is? You hate Mordred because he has _magic?”_

Merlin weighed his options carefully. They were close, _so close._ Arthur was _thinking,_ and there might never be a better time than right now. “Would magic be a justifiable reason to hate him?”

Now Arthur was sitting upright, the struggle clear on his face. 

Perhaps now was a good time to push him. “Arthur, how often have we faced sorcerers who have wanted revenge on your father, or on the kingdom, for killing their kind? Nimueh, Morgause. And Morgana. Do you think she would have left, had she been welcomed in Camelot instead of afraid of being killed for having magic? How many sorcerers would never have turned to retaliation for the deaths of their loved ones?”

Arthur shifted his gaze to the forest floor, jaw clenched, “My father--”

“Is _gone,_ Arthur. And I know you love him dearly. But when the crown came to you, you gave an oath to be honest and merciful and just and I can't see how that extends to the poor and the needy and the criminal, but not to those who practice magic.”

“I also vowed to uphold the law.”

“Laws can be changed. _You_ are the king now, not Uther. And just as you see the worth in knights of common blood, in a _wife_ of common blood, can you not find the worth in those born with magic?”

Arthur sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting out a gusty sigh. He pinned Merlin with his gaze. “So, I was right. You were lying.”

Merlin startled slightly. He'd rather been hoping Arthur would be distracted from that. He bit at his lower lip, trying to tread carefully. “I . . . had my reasons. I _have_ my reasons.”

“Tell me.”

He shook his head, frustrated at his body. Tension was still coiled through his frame, a lump lodged in his throat that only grew bigger when he opened his mouth to speak. It took two tries before he could ask, “Answer me first? If Mordred has magic, is he worth saving? Would you allow him to live, to be free?”

Arthur's entire face twisted, and his expression was hurt. “I . . . I can't change the laws on magic overnight. Not for one man. Not even a friend.”

That wasn't precisely a no. Simply an acknowledgement of the difficulty. 

The seconds stretched out, as Merlin gathered his courage. For all that he had faced dragons and bandits and half-mad priestesses, he'd never felt so terrified. “And if it were me?” he finally whispered.

Hard, piercing blue eyes narrowed at him for a long moment. “ _Is_ it?”

Merlin stopped fighting the tears that were starting to slide down his face as he hauled himself up into a kneeling position in front of Arthur, making sure not to touch him. He almost couldn't speak through the choking sensation, but determined, he squeezed out, “Yes.”

Arthur's eyes widened, his breath quickened, his body suddenly tense, as though torn between fight and flight. _“Yes, what?”_ he ground out.

Merlin just shut his eyes hard, afraid of what he'd see. “I'm a sorcerer. I have magic.” He heard a ragged gasp, the sound of Arthur shifting away. _Please, don't let it end like this,_ he begged silently. “I was born with it, and I've used it to serve you. I—I wanted to tell you, but--”

“But instead you _lied_ to me. For _years._ You . . . of all people, you _betrayed_ me!” His tone was injured, just bordering on outraged.

“No!” Merlin blurted out, shaking his head violently. “Lied, yes, but I would never betray you. _Never!_ I'm here to _protect_ you, Arthur, to see you become the King you're meant to be. You're destined to unite Albion and bring magic back to the land, and it's my destiny to serve you. Please, if nothing else, believe that!”

Hands clenched and unclenched, but Arthur looked like he was at least listening, though the gods alone knew what was actually running through his head.

Merlin sniffed hard, his head bowed as he whispered, “You would have _killed_ me, Arthur.”

“So sure of that, are you?” Arthur bit out.

“In the beginning, yes. And then . . . you'd have felt badly about it, but your father's word was law. Us being friends, or—or whatever you call it to make it okay in your head to fraternize with a servant. It never stopped you from arresting me on his orders. You _have_ arrested me for sorcery. Why should I think you'd stop at a jail cell? You've watched so many burn or be beheaded. I'm just one more filthy sorcerer.”

Arthur swallowed, seemingly repulsed at the thought. “Wrong, as usual. But . . . after my father . . . after his death?”

Merlin dared to look up at Arthur, hoping his friend could see the sincerity in his eyes. “By then, it wasn't death I was afraid of.” He saw a shimmer of wetness in the other's eyes, and prayed it meant what he thought. “You're my friend and I don't want to lose you. And that is why I chose Mordred's death. Just as your greatness has been told by destiny, so has your death at his hands has been foretold. I can't let that happen. I just . . . I just _can't._ ”

Arthur worked his jaw for a moment, the anger easing off into thoughtfulness. They sat in silence for a time, Merlin still kneeling as he turned his gaze to the dark forest, giving Arthur a semblance of privacy as he gathered his thoughts. 

“Let's see it, then.”

Startled, Merlin jerked back and stared at Arthur for a moment. “See what?”

He got a raised eyebrow in return. “ _Magic,_ idiot. If you have it, let's see some.”

Mentally, he flailed about even as the fire within him started burning brighter, as though excited at the thought of showing off for his king. The whole clearing seemed to join in, the vibrations taking on a sound that resonated in his marrow. “What . . . I mean, what do you want to see?”

Arthur shrugged, “What can you do?”

“Anything.”

He got a skeptical look in return. “Anything.”

“ _Anything!_ ” Merlin insisted. He suddenly remembered Freya. “What d'you want to eat?”

“What, and you're just going to . . . pluck it out of thin air?”

He huffed in exasperation. “Just _pick_ something.”

“Fine! How about an apple.”

Arthur didn't even _like_ apples. Rolling his eyes, Merlin closed his hands around the appropriate-sized shape of space, and drew on his magic. He ignored Arthur's startled gasp—no doubt at the sight of his eyes glowing, and just focused on conjuring an apple. 

Unfortunately, it seemed his magic was remembering Freya as well, because when he opened his hands, there was a large, fully blooming, Pendragon red rose in his hands.

Merlin blinked at it. “Er.” Maybe he should stop trying to magic up food for people he lo— _cared for deeply._ He prayed his face was still ruddy enough from his tears that the blush he could feel was invisible. He offered it up anyway, staring hard at the fire so that he didn't have to look at Arthur.

Arthur huffed a laugh as he took the rose. “Well. I suppose that tells me two things. One, that you're as bad a sorcerer as you are a servant, and two, that you really are a great, big girl.” 

Merlin felt his lips twitch into a small grin. “Yes, rather like how being King of Camelot hasn't changed the fact that you're a spoiled prat.” 

That earned him a real laugh, and most of the heaviness finally lifted from Merlin. Arthur gently touched the rose's blood red petals. “On the other hand, you made it bloom out of season. I suppose that counts for _something._ ”

The relief at being made fun of was honestly astounding after all of his previous complaints about it. “Yes, well, remember that time you thought I was giving Morgana flowers? You asked where yours were, and now you've finally got them.” 

_“One.”_

“Oh, I'm sorry, m'lord. Shall I conjure you a _bouquet,_ then? Perhaps scatter petals over the bedrolls?”

“Shut _up,_ Merlin,” Arthur groaned, but he was smiling.

Merlin finally broke his kneeling position and sat back on his bedroll, no longer feeling like he might need to bolt. “So what do we do now?”

The humour slid away from Arthur's face like snow during the spring thaw, worry once again creasing his brow. “I'm not entirely sure. One thing at a time, I suppose. In the morning, you and I will go and tell the Disir that I'm going to allow the Old Religion back into Camelot.”

Unable to stop the sharp inhale at actually hearing the words, Merlin felt tears begin to fall again—this time for a much happier reason. “And then?”

Arthur's mouth quirked up a little, “And then, I suppose we go home and figure out how to make magic legal again.”

“Gaius and Geoffrey were both around before the ban,” Merlin pointed out. “Some of your father's councillors, as well. I'm sure they can give you an idea of what the laws in place were.”

“We'll need to do better than that,” Arthur replied firmly. “And I'll need someone to advise me.” He gave Merlin a significant look.

The idea was so ludicrous that Merlin was tempted to look behind him to see if there was someone else there. “Arth—you can't possibly. Like I said, I'm just a--a _servant!_ ”

“If I can see the worth in knights of common blood, can I not find the worth in one born with magic?”

Merlin laughed, a little breathless. “Now look, see? You're a liar, too. You said you never listen to me!”

“And now, I suppose I'll have to start,” Arthur said, a hint of authority in his voice. For all that he looked weary, probably from the weight of all the conflicting emotions that had been bandied about for the last half hour, Merlin had never seen him look so resolute. 

He couldn't help but tease, “Half the council will think it's the end of the world, you realise?”

Arthur smiled, no doubt imagining the chaos. “And so they may. But I'd rather think, that for you and I, and countless others, it will be a new beginning.”

Merlin could feel his answering grin stretching from ear to ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Um. This was supposed to be stand-alone. Instead I wrote Week 2 as a second part. Because I'm terrible at writing short things, I guess?


End file.
